State of Grace

Boot Hill graveyard wasn’t quiet. Not tonight.

The tour had pulled in at least forty people, every one of them carrying a long white taper candle the guides had handed out at the gate. Light flickered everywhere, painting the old stones gold, shadows stretching and collapsing across the dirt. It was hauntingly beautiful.

Dean hung back with you at the tail end, shotgun low at his side, duster covering most of it. He slipped the other one into your hand without a word. The weight settled against your palm, a reminder that no matter how much this looked like a fun little event, you were working.

Dean didn’t seem to remember that part.

His hand brushed yours once, then again, obviously doing it on purpose. You finally threaded your fingers through his, just to shut him up. He squeezed tight, smug grin flashing under the brim of his hat.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered, satisfied. ‘Thought so.’

You bit back a smile. Romantic. In a graveyard. Carrying shotguns. Your life never ceased to disappoint.

The tour guide up front launched into some speech about how Boot Hill was one of the ‘most haunted sites in America.’ His voice carried back over the crowd.

‘Now remember, ghosts only appear at night. But don’t worry, they’re just echoes and can’t touch the living…’

Dean leaned in close, lips brushing your ear. ‘Pretty sure I’ve had my ass handed to me in broad daylight plenty of times.’

‘…And just to be safe, the candlelight keeps them at bay…’

Dean’s thumb slipped free from your laced hands, brushing over the outside of your thigh, slowly. His mouth dipped low, hot against your skin.

‘Sweetheart, only thing this candlelight’s keeping at bay is my self-control.’

You shoved at his chest, trying not to laugh. ‘Shut up.’

He smirked, eyes glinting in the soft glow, clearly not sorry.

Candlelight softened everything, even him. Without thinking, you started brushing little circles across his palm. Dean noticed, of course. He gave a low chuckle and tugged you in closer until your shoulder knocked against his.

‘Gotta say,’ he murmured, voice softer this time, ‘could get used to dates with ambiance like this.’

You rolled your eyes. ‘We’re literally carrying shotguns, hunting a ghost.’

‘Details,’ he muttered, brushing his scruff against your temple.

The guide rambled on about the restless dead when it hit. Cold. Sudden. A sharp shiver cut right up your spine. People in the middle of the group yelped. Someone stumbled forward, candle clattering against the dirt. Another cried out, swearing they’d been shoved.

Dean reacted first. Instinct. He pulled you behind him, one arm stretched back to keep you covered. His stance shifted, ready, eyes locked forward.

A tall, lanky guy two rows up straightened too fast. His shoulders squared, his movements wrong. When he turned, it wasn’t him looking out of those eyes.

‘Sheriff.’

Dean’s whole body tightened.

The possessed man tipped his head, cocky as hell. ‘I was there, watchin’. That day on Allen Street. You strutted in, makin’ fun of the way they shot, runnin’ your mouth like you had the right.’

Dean blinked, his lips parting like he’d just seen a celebrity.

But Billy wasn’t done. His voice sharpened. ‘When you shoved me against that bar, it damn near hurt. I’ve had just about enough of you lawful lot. I ain’t lettin’ you stop me again.’

Dean actually grinned. ‘Listen… was that you shootin’ at us last night? ’Cause I gotta tell you, you got crap aim. Which we saw again today. No wonder you got your ass handed to you a century ago.’

‘Dean!’ you hissed. 

He glanced at you, eyes bright like a kid at Christmas. ‘That’s okay, babe. I got this.’

But you saw it. Billy’s hand twitching, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there.

‘Shit!’

You stomped down on a salt shell, boot cracking it open. In one move you scooped the salt and hurled it at the guy’s chest.

The scream tore through the graveyard as the ghost ripped out of the body. The man crumpled, free, gasping on the dirt.

Dean turned to you like you’d just ruined his autograph session.

You glared back, chest heaving. ‘Focus, goddamnit.’

The tour ended faster than anyone expected after that. The guide, pale and rattled, forced a shaky laugh. ‘See? The candles kept us safe. Now, let’s move along and leave the spirits to rest. We overstayed our welcome.’

The tourists, still buzzing from what they’d seen, shuffled back toward the entrance in clusters. Some whispered about how real it had looked, others clutched their candles like lifelines. You waited until the crowd thinned, then turned to Dean.

‘Billy’s grave is back near the parking lot, with the other outlaws. Let’s get this over with.’

Dean adjusted the duster, scanning the shadows, expecting Billy to pop up any second. ‘Yeah. We got, what, two, three hours ‘til the party at the saloon? Don’t wanna miss that.’

‘Then maybe stop fangirling and antagonizing him?’ you shot back.

He pouted, exaggerated. ‘Yeah, alright. You never let me do anything fun.’

You rolled your eyes and led the way.

The grave wasn’t deep. Couldn’t be, the ground here was too rocky, too stubborn to dig deep. Instead, Billy and the outlaws had a cairn piled high, a mountain of stones that had to be shifted before you could dig. Dean grumbled the second you bent to start hauling rocks.

‘Grave digging’s my department, sweetheart.’

You shrugged out of your vest, dropped the underbust on top of it, and kept going. ‘Then consider this a team effort.’

He muttered under his breath but didn’t stop you. The look he gave you when you wiped dust off your hands said plenty, though. He loved it.

You smirked. ‘Romantic date, huh?’

‘Hey, we can still make out if you want,’ he shot back, fighting the smirk.

‘Focus,’ you warned.

You both fell quiet, the scrape of stone against stone filling the air as you worked. Dust clung to your hands, the pile shrinking one heavy rock at a time. Dean’s shovel dug into the dirt, sharp, steady. He was actually trying to stay focused.

And for a minute, you almost believed he would.

But Dean being Dean, it couldn’t last. He hefted a scoop of dirt out of the grave, voice carrying as he threw it aside. ‘C’mon, Billy. You wanted me? You got me.’

‘Dean.’

‘What? Gotta give him a chance to show his face.’

You straightened, dusting your hands off on your pants. ‘Or maybe quit showing off before he puts a hole in your head.’

Dean just chuckled, leaning on the shovel. He gave you that sideways look, cocky as hell. ‘Please. Guy can’t even aim.’

You didn’t get a chance to argue, because the air dropped cold. Billy flickered into view. First a haze, then sharp, a gun in his hand aimed right at Dean.

‘Dean!’

Your shotgun came up. One shot of rock salt blasted him back, the figure unraveling into smoke.

Dean’s boots slipped in the dirt as he hauled himself out of the grave, shotgun already up. Billy flickered back into shape behind him, grin wide. Dean spun, fired point-blank. The ghost blew apart, smoke curling off into the dark.

Then nothing.

Too quiet.

Every shadow pressed in. You circled slow, shotgun tight in your hands, the night heavy and tense. The candlelight from the tour was long gone, leaving nothing but the dark and the sound of your own breathing. You couldn’t see him, but you knew Billy was close. Watching. Waiting.

Then it hit. Sudden and sharp. Your hip lit up like someone pressed a brand there. You gasped, clutching the spot, heat crawling under your skin.

‘My ass burns!’

Dean spun, shotgun half-raised. ‘…What?’

‘My ass, Dean! It’s on fire!’

His mouth fell open, eyes darting between you and the shadows. ‘Sweetheart, I don’t- what exactly do you want me to do about your ass right now?’

‘I don’t know!’ you snapped, staggering back as the heat spiked, white-hot. ‘Something!’

Dean blinked, still off-balance. ‘Okay, is this, like, a sexy thing? ‘Cause baby, not the right time-’

And then the cold hit. A wall of it, slamming into you. Your breath tore out of your lungs. Your knees buckled. Dean’s joke died on his lips as he lunged forward, catching you just before your body hit the dirt.

‘Son of a bitch,’ he muttered, holding you tight as you slumped forward. The cold ripped out of you in one violent rush. A scream clawed up your throat but cut off halfway as a blast tore out of your side, straight into the dark. The ghost reeled back, hissed, and vanished.

Dean’s grip tightened, eyes wide as he scanned the graveyard. ‘You with me?’

You nodded shakily, chest heaving. ‘It… it tried to take me.’

‘Yeah, I saw,’ he muttered, hauling you upright. ‘Scared the hell outta me.’

‘No, Dean.’ You yanked your waistband down just enough to bare your hip. Your breath stuttered. ‘Look.’

The rune there glowed faint gold, lines sharp against your skin. You traced it with a finger, heart racing. ‘It worked. The ghost wanted in, but it couldn’t. The iron, the blood, the incantation… it worked.’

Dean froze. He leaned closer, eyes locked on the mark, then brushed his fingers carefully across your skin. His thumb dragged the edge of the rune, slow.

He looked up at you, stunned. ‘It’s ice cold now.’

You swallowed. ‘Yeah. Feels like it, too.’

And then… he laughed.

Not a huff or smirk. A full laugh. Loud, open-mouthed, head tipped back. He staggered a step away, hands braced on his knees, howling.

You blinked at him, exasperated. ‘It’s not funny.’

‘Sweetheart-’ He wheezed between laughs. ‘You… you just screamed at me…’ another laugh ripped out of him, shoulders shaking, ‘that your ass was on fire!’

‘Dean!’ You shoved at his shoulder.

‘What the hell was I supposed to do?’ He wiped his eyes, still laughing like an idiot. ‘Ice it? Call a doctor? Kiss it better?’

You tried to glare, but your lips twitched.

‘C’mon,’ he pressed, smirk sharp now. ‘’My ass burns, Dean!’ You sounded like you needed ointment or something.’

You broke, snorting despite yourself. ‘Fuck off.’

He chuckled, clutching his side like it hurt. ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard all damn week.’

You shook your head, rolling your eyes, but the smile dragged at your mouth anyway. With him laughing like that, the graveyard didn’t feel half as dark.

Dean was laughing his ass off, ribs aching. Didn’t matter she was glaring at him like she might put a bullet in him. He knew he was never gonna forget that line. My ass is on fire. Only her. Half-possessed in a graveyard, yelling that at him.

And yeah, the possession part scared the crap out of him. But damn if it wasn’t hot, too. The way she’d snapped at him like it was his job to fix it, the wild look in her eyes… and that glowing tattoo just above her ass. He was the idiot who’d talked her into putting it there. Best idea he ever had.

But game time was over. Billy laid hands on her, and that was it. Dean was putting that outlaw in the ground. Again.

They tore into the grave hard. Dirt and stones flying, sweat burning his eyes, shirt stuck to his back. When the coffin finally showed, Dean didn’t hesitate, slammed the shovel down and the wood gave way in a crack of splinters.

Billy showed before the dust even cleared. Hat low, eyes dark. Voice sharp. ‘That hurt. You really think you can box me in again?’

Dean snapped the shotgun up, smooth. Safety off, hammer back, eyes locked. ‘Damn right,’ he growled. ‘End of the line, cowboy.’

Salt blasted through Billy’s chest, sent him reeling. But the bastard came right back, snarling, hurling Dean across the yard like he weighed nothing. His ribs lit up when his back cracked against a headstone.

‘Dean!’ she shouted, rushing toward him.

He groaned, rolled to his side, hand clutching his ribs, but still managed a grin. ‘What? Still look like a badass, right?’

Billy flickered again and lunged, straight at her. Shoved hard enough to knock the wind out of her. Not as brutal, more like tossing her out of his way. Dean’s blood went hot.

‘Oh, hell no.’ He forced himself up, teeth gritted, shotgun steady. ‘You want a fight, you take it up with me.’

He fired again, rock salt tearing through. She was already at the grave, dumping salt, lighter sparking. Billy lunged one last time, grabbed Dean, slammed him down in the dirt, hard, just as the bones caught flame.

The scream ripped through the night, smoke twisting white-hot until nothing was left but silence and burning bone.

Dean lay there, chest heaving, dirt in his face. Hurt like hell, but breathing. She dropped to her knees beside him, hand warm on his jaw, thumb brushing grit away.

‘Sheriff, he roughed you up pretty badly,’ she teased.

Dean smirked through the pain. ‘Yeah, well… lucky I got a girl this hot patchin’ me up.’

Fire snapped louder, Billy’s bones burning clean. Dean let out a long breath. Words came out rough, without thinking. ‘Tell your friends the law’s comin’. And hell’s comin’ with me.’

She shook her head. ‘Flat on your back in the dirt, and you still think you’re Wyatt Earp.’

Dean hooked an arm around her waist, dragged her down against him, ribs protesting with every move. Didn’t care. His eyes locked on hers. ‘Nah. I’m better lookin’.’

Then he kissed her. Hard. Hungry. Hand fisted in her shirt, holding her there, chest pressed tight against his. She kissed him back just as rough, teeth catching his lip and pulling a groan straight out of him.

The fire cracked behind them, painting the night orange. Dean didn’t give a damn. All that mattered was her weight on him, her hand on his jaw, the way she kissed him like they hadn’t just nearly been killed. Like she wanted more, right here in the dirt. And hell, so did he.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping, Dean let his head fall back against the ground, grin plastered across his face.

‘Best damn hunt I ever had.’

You kissed him one last time then turned back to the grave. Stones needed to be hauled back on, and fast. Dean groaned as he straightened, one hand pressed against his ribs.

‘You alright?’ you asked, already dragging rocks back into place.

‘Yeah,’ he muttered, voice a little rough. ‘Had worse, baby. Don’t worry about it. Let’s finish this up so we can get to that goddamn party.’

You froze mid-lift, eyebrows shooting up. ‘What? You really wanna go there? It’s probably started already. And you’re wiped. Honestly, so am I.’

He shot you a look. ‘Hell yeah I wanna go. We deserve to celebrate. Not just this,’ he waved a hand toward the grave, ‘the whole trip.’

The spark in his eyes made you stop arguing. You smiled, shoulders dropping. ‘Yeah. You’re right. But we’ll need to clean up first.’

A quick stop at the hotel. Shower, fresh clothes, the stench of graveyard finally scrubbed away. By the time you pushed through the saloon doors, you’d managed to look halfway human again.

The place was nothing like before. Packed to the rafters, laughter and chatter filling every inch of space. A stage had been thrown together in one corner, a small band playing something folksy. Not exactly western, but it fit.

Dean found you a table near the back, then went to fetch drinks and something to eat. By the time he returned with two whiskeys, you were already soaking it all in.

He sat, slid one glass to you, and caught your hand across the table. His thumb dragged lazy lines over your skin as he glanced around the room, grin tugging at his mouth.

‘Well?’ You asked, tilting your head, ‘was this everything you hoped for?’

Dean looked back at you. Those little wrinkles by his eyes, the ones you loved so much, deepened with his smile.

‘You know it was more, sweetheart.’ He leaned across the table and kissed you, quick. When he pulled back, his voice dropped low. ‘Thank you.’

Your chest tightened. You covered it by taking a sip, but the warmth stayed.

He cleared his throat, smirked into his glass. ‘So many memories I’ll treasure forever.’

The tone was off. Not soft, not sentimental. Mocking. Your eyes narrowed.

‘I just can’t decide which one’s up there. You cutting your own underwear off…’ he closed his eyes, shook his head and hummed, ‘...or you yelling your ass is on fire.’ His chuckle broke through, shoulders shaking, 

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck.

He straightened quickly, holding up a hand. ‘Alright, sorry.’

‘Mhm.’ You arched a brow.

You were about to ask him when he wanted to head out tomorrow morning when the music cut off. A voice boomed from the little stage, the announcer clutching a clipboard.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the awards!’

Dean lit up immediately. ‘Here we go.’

A bunch of trophies gleamed on a table beside the stage, small golden statues, a few plaques, a ribbon or two.

First up: sharpshooting.

You weren’t even paying much attention. There’d been so many people at the range, and honestly? Showing off in front of Dean had already been enough of a win. Third and second places were both men, loud whoops came from their tables. Then the announcer lifted the clipboard, grin wide.

‘And first place, proving the ladies can outshoot the men any day-’ he paused for effect, then said your name out loud.

The words hit like ice water down your back. You froze, heart tripping over itself.

Dean didn’t. He was already on his feet, hooting, hollering, grinning like an idiot. You had no idea how your legs carried you to the stage, but suddenly you were holding a trophy, a little gold Colt perched on a marble stand.

Dean’s voice carried over the noise, loud and proud. ‘That’s my girl!’

You wanted to melt straight into the floor. By the time you sat back down, your face burned, but his grin only widened.

Quick draw was next. No surprise when Dean’s name came up, but your stomach still flipped. He winked at you as he stood, hat tilted just right, sheriff’s badge flashing on his chest. Shoulders squared, every step confident, and damn if he didn’t know exactly what he looked like up there.

He took his trophy, tipped his hat, that cocky smile cutting sharp across his face.

The announcer laughed. ‘That’s one deadly couple right there.’

Heat crept up your neck again.

Other categories followed. Knife throwing, roping, things you hadn’t participated in. You clapped along, letting your pulse settle, until barrel racing came up.

You nudged Dean. ‘Think you got a shot?’

He laughed, low, shaking his head. ‘Nah. Not even close. I was doin’ it for fun.’

Winners were called, applause rising. Then the announcer lifted one more card.

‘We’ve got a special ribbon tonight. Because sometimes it’s not about speed,  it’s about style. The committee, with heavy encouragement from the ladies of this town, insisted we honor the most memorable run of the arena.’

Dean’s name.

Your head dropped into your hand.

Dean stood, putting on the fakest humble expression you’d ever seen, as if the red ribbon was some solemn honor. By the time he came back, he was smug as all hell.

‘Your ego did not need this,’ you muttered, yanking him closer by the shirt. You kissed him quick and hard, on purpose, right there while people were still clapping. A clear message. When you pulled back, he looked a little surprised, then smirked even harder.

More awards. More names. Then finally… best couple costume.

The announcer drew it out, but you already knew. ‘Sheriff and his gunslinger.  Immaculate costumes, sure, but the commitment, the chemistry. You two made it unforgettable.’

Dean turned to you with that sharp, lopsided smile, pure told you so. Before you could even roll your eyes, he was already on his feet, tugging you up with him. You barely had time to take the plaque before he dipped you low and kissed you, intense, in front of everyone.

The crowd roared. You swatted his chest when he pulled you back up, your face on fire, and tugged him off the stage as fast as possible.

Back at the table, Dean set the plaque down, still grinning like an idiot. ‘We’re gonna need a whole damn shelf for these.’

You couldn’t even argue. He looked too damn proud, sitting there with his trophies and that stupid hat tipped just so. All you could do was smile at him.

Dean leaned back in his chair, eyes on her at the bar. She was laughing at something one of the tourists said, head tipped back, two drinks balanced in her hands. For a second he just sat there, soaking it in. His girl, lit up like she owned the room. Like everything spun around her.

Then the band kicked into a new song. Quick, fiddle high, folky. He didn’t even clock the lyrics at first, until they cut through.

Oh Lord, let me die first, I can’t be without her,I hope I’d never live to see her casket lined with lace…

At first it almost felt sweet. Almost made him smile, eyes still locked on her. Then it landed.

Because he had seen her like that. Not lace. Blood. Eyes gone glassy in his arms, body still and cold while he begged her to come back. The picture ripped through him sharp as the first time, right down to the ache in his knees.

She deserves to thrive on this earth a little longer…If you need another worker, you can take me in her place…

And just like that, the panic was back. The what-ifs. Same ones that had choked him out on the balcony. What if it happened again? What if all of this was borrowed time and he was just sitting here, drinking, wasting it?

He couldn’t breathe.

Stupid lame-ass song. Stupid fucking words. What even is this bullshit music? He pressed his palm hard against his thigh like he could ground himself that way. Didn’t help. She glanced back at him right then, smiled, even winked. And it gutted him.

Dean shoved back from the table, shouldered through the crowd, and pushed outside.

The night air hit sharp. He braced a hand against the wall, jaw locked, chest heaving.

‘Dean?’ Her voice cut through. Quick footsteps. Then she was in front of him, face tight with worry. ‘What’s wrong?’

He shook his head. Couldn’t explain it. Didn’t want to. The words that came out weren’t planned. They just ripped free, straight from the gut.

‘Let’s get married. Now. I don’t wanna wait.’

Her eyes went wide.

‘I mean… soon,’ he pushed on, rough. ‘As soon as we can. I don’t give a damn about flowers or cake or any of that crap. I just…’ He blew out a breath, hand finding her waist, gripping tight. ‘I just want you as my wife. No more stalling. No more waiting for the perfect time. I need you mine. Official.’

No smirk. No joke. Nothing to hide behind. Just him, laid bare, hoping she’d see he was dead serious.

‘Okay…’ she said gently, sliding her hands into his. ‘Okay, Dean. But tell me what’s wrong. Talk to me.’

He shook his head. Couldn’t stand the look in her eyes. Closed his own, frowned. ‘Nothing. Just… got a little overwhelmed, that’s all.’

Her palm cupped his cheek. Warm. Thumb brushing over his scruff. He forced his eyes open, met her smile. And that damn song still leaked out from the saloon behind them.

‘But I mean it,’ he muttered, quieter now. ‘Let’s do it.’

She searched him, long enough to make him shift his feet, then stretched up to press a quick kiss to his lips.

‘Alright.’

The weight in his chest eased, just like that. He felt like an idiot, but lighter for it. The song ended behind them, people cheering, clapping, oblivious. 

And in the back of his head, the words stuck anyway. Oh Lord, let me die first. I can’t be without her. Yeah… pretty much that.

Her hand slipped back into his, steady and sure. No judgment, no mockery. Just her, right there.

‘You wanna get out of here,’ she asked softly, ‘or finish our drinks first?’

Dean breathed out, rough laugh at the edge of it. ‘Let’s get back in there. But not for long.’

She smiled, bright, beautiful, and tugged him back inside by the hand.

You stood there, staring at him. He looked wrecked, chest still heaving from the panic, eyes sharp and scared and soft all at once.

Let’s get married. Now.

Your heart kicked so hard you thought it might bruise your ribs. Half of you wanted to laugh, to crack a joke about how smooth he wasn’t. But the other half, the bigger half, wanted to wrap him up, tell him yes, let’s do it already, no questions. Because it wasn’t nerves talking. It was Dean, stripped bare, begging you not to wait any longer.

You stepped close, took his hands. ‘Alright.’

He searched your face like he didn’t believe it until you brushed his lips in a kiss. His shoulders dropped, a shaky laugh spilling out as he muttered about feeling like an idiot. You didn’t care. You just squeezed his hands tighter.

The saloon music spilled out behind you, voices rising again, the band kicking into something rowdy. You tipped your head toward it. ‘You wanna get out of here?’

He paused, then smirked faintly, almost himself again. ‘Let’s get back in there. But not for long.’

And he let you drag him back inside.

The party carried on, loud and buzzing, but you two stayed close, his hand never leaving yours. The awards sat piled between you, little trophies catching the light, and Dean looked at them like they were treasure. More than once he leaned close, smiling, whispering things that made you roll your eyes and blush in equal measure.

By the time you made it back to the hotel, it was late. Too late. You barely kicked your boots off before collapsing on the bed. He tugged at his shirt half-heartedly, gave up, rolled toward you. His hand found yours in the dark, held on even as his breathing slowed, stubble scraping the pillow.

You stayed awake a little longer. Just watching. The man who drove you crazy, made you laugh until your ribs hurt, scared you half to death and then made you feel safer than you ever had. The man who’d just asked you, plain and desperate, to stop waiting and finally be his.

You smiled into the dark, chest tight, full.

It had been messy. Wild. Unforgettable ride.

And soon, Dean Winchester would be your husband.

You couldn’t wait.

A/N: The song is The Horse Accident (In Which A Girl Was All But Killed) by Goodnight, Texas. Give it a listen if you’d like to know what Dean heard in that saloon.